Poems by Max Thrax



Thunder of consonants
Rolling out line
By line

Fifteen cigarettes
Before you roll
Out of bed

Throw the typewriter
Down the stairs

Broken keys
Lines staggered

She smiles
And says
Too soft


Provincial boy
Communion medal
Your poems scrawled
On your mother’s skirts

Her eyes
The eyes
Of a horse

Her hooves legion
And her punishments

Gare du Nord boy
Reading Faust
With a bullet in your wrist
Beware family men

No longer a boy
Not a man
A thing
Exchanged by weathered hands
Around the Cape and Horn

Rotting bone
A long, immense, rational
Derangement of the cells

From common bonds
You fly
Boy with sticky hair
And blue eyes reflecting
Holes in the sky


Because I am drawn
To worldly things
I am drawn
Drawn out
And shot down the drain


Smell of rain
And I am there

On Devil’s Bridge
I taste your hair
Fingers touch
Then disappear

Parapet bare
Carve it all
To us alone

Evening comes in winds
Breeze from Annelinn calls
Just to hear
I am here
With you

Back again to village life
Taking in the country air
All it took
For me to fall
Was you

Dropping my reflector
A tiny light
Dies second by second
Off Devil’s Bridge

ROOM 306

When they laid her
On the table
She cried because
She swore she bore
A bomb inside

Strapped down
She screamed
To all the saints

Her face
Turned to ash
And blew away


At dawn
The walls turn to scales
Two yellow eyes
Stare back at me

I never ask
Why they stare
Only why
They never blink

And why the tail
Rising from the floor
Never coils
Or catches me
To squeeze

Max Thrax lives in Boston. His novella God Is A Killer (Close To The Bone) will be published in May 2022. Find him at www.maxthrax.com or on Twitter @ThraxMaximilian.